


The Seventh Stardrop

by Acid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Fruit, Gardener Harry Potter, Gardens & Gardening, Ghosts, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Resurrection, Slow Burn, Stardew Valley AU, Stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid/pseuds/Acid
Summary: Harry's break from the Auror duties ends with him taking care of Hogwarts' grounds. A message from Severus Snape finds him tending to the crops by his cabin. Where would such an odd set of instructions lead them both, and what does the unnamed sprout found amid Hagrid's old pumpkin patch have to do with it?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 21
Kudos: 47





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to growing something green and tangible in the world where the seasons pass all the same, and fruits and flowers shouldn't matter but do, despite the odds.

_"The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit." James Joyce (Ulysses)_

*

" _Dear Harry._ " As all good things usually did, the letter delivered by an owl on the evening of Harry's thirty-third birthday began simply with a scribble of his name. Harry squinted at it and kept on reading.

The parchment carried a faint scent of sugary vanilla peppered with scone crumbs, and was decorated with one giant inky thumbprint instead of a signature. Even without the signature, Hagrid's unmistakably earnest penmanship, not to mention the size of the thumbprint, an inky halo spiralling around Harry's own finger as he pressed his thumb to the centre, out of the sense of belonging more than out of the need to compare, was hard to mistake for anyone else's greeting.

" _If you're reading this, then you must be in dire need of a change. Long ago, this happened to me too. Once I'd lost sight of what mattered: good people and the simple comfort of nature. So when Dumbledore asked for my help, I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong. I never once regretted it._ "

 _Great man, Dumbledore,_ rang out in Harry's frazzled mind in Hagrid's reverent tones: an unforgettable testament to one legendary wizard. The next sentence informed Harry of Hagrid's long-overdue retirement, followed by a truly remarkable, unexpected request. In fact, it wasn't so much a request as...

 _What is this anyway?_ _Has to be his way of saying happy birthday, given the date. But what is it all about?_

_A second chance? So much more..._

Harry rubbed his bristling chin and loosened his tie. He hated wearing ties, but as prior birthday celebrations had taught him, getting caught on camera by an odd paparazzi without one spelled doom in the morning, from Witch Weekly to the Prophet. They were all alike, the vulture pack. Even with the knot to the silky fabric loosened and his collar undone, it was suddenly hard to breathe deeply, thinking about the articles following his and Ginny's breakup.

Hagrid's words right there, plain as day, grounded him, like a faceful of summer rain, like a rustle of grass on the hill leading up to Hagrid's cabin. It was a reminder of simpler days when his current troubles were not yet haunting his dreams and the towers of Hogwarts castle stretched far into the sky over Harry's head, overshadowing his childhood, pointing the way toward the sunlit, endless clouds.

Truth was, at that moment, he didn't quite know what Hagrid's thoughtful note truly meant for him but he felt it anyway, in his bones and in his heart: Harry Bloody Potter, newly single, alone and adrift at thirty-three, knew right there and then that it was the best news he'd received in a very long time. Like Hagrid's first birthday cake for him, on a day when he expected no presents at all, especially from a complete stranger, any message from Hagrid had kindled the anticipation of a remarkable adventure ahead. Regardless of where Harry found himself in life, Hagrid always had a knack for surprising him, ever since that day, even today after all these years, be it with a cake or eight simple words in a carefully handwritten sentence.

_"My hut is yours, should you want it."_

The sentiment was so simple and yet so heartfelt. It had been a tough winter, a tough couple years to be honest, and for the first time in what felt like forever Harry sensed wet warmth welling up in his eyes. He had to stop reading for a second to lift his glasses up over his scar and rub his eyes dry. _Oh, Hagrid!_ One sentence which had the power to turn Harry's life completely upside down sunk deep into his tired mind and took all breath out of him. An offer as generous as it had been unexpected, like all Hagrid's gifts, be it of baked goods or the sacrifice of his life for the ones he loved, should it be needed, ended as simply as it had begun. 

_"Happy birthday, Harry."_

It was just as well that the width and the height of Hagrid's letters were, on average, three times larger than any handwritten letter Harry was used to reading. They were blurry and soft as he stared at the fated line without his glasses on, and then lifted his hand to swipe at his watering eyes, then lowered it to his mouth, standing still in the centre of the Grimmauld Place sitting room, with only his owl and a softly snoring painting of an 18th century kneazle for company.

_Bloody hell. What am I going to do?_

Harry stared at the stack of letters on the table: a pile of Howlers suspended under the stasis charm, a care package from Mrs Weasley, requests for interviews, Robards' note inviting him back to the M.L.E. should he be ready to resume his duties, an offer by the finest of the Daily Prophet's contributors to pen the autobiography series of The Boy Who Lived, a postcard from France that still held Ginny's floral perfume. (She was happy there, at least, with someone named Maru who, Harry was sure by now, had been a younger woman, judging by just how much Ginny had tried to avoid mentioning Maru's gender or age in her letters to Mr and Mrs Weasley.)

_How can I turn this one down? What can I possibly say to that?_

And then, to the soft rustle of a post owl's wings stirring centuries' worth of dust around the bookshelves, to the crackle of the fireplace burning bright, Harry realised one simple truth. _I don't want to say no to this._

_I need this. I want to see it through._

_I can't_ ** _not_** _take this chance._

_I have to do this._

*

"Harry, are you quite mad?" Hermione questioned, tapping her lips and scrutinising him over the rims of her new reading glasses. "Let us look at the situation with a rational mind. You have extensive experience as a deputy head of the Auror Department anytime you decide to return, an offer to teach Defence of Dark Arts at Beauxbatons, a stellar career as a Quidditch player should you choose to explore that route. And you want my help with... an application as a Hogwarts gamekeeper? Do you even know what the job _entails?"_

_Walking. Lots and lots of walking outside. I can do that. I'm rather good at it by now._

Harry stopped himself from pushing up his fringe in an expectation of a well-deserved lecture. He's been told it was a nervous tick that gave away his uncertainty. "Right," he said instead. "Um, I just need a year of peace and quiet, maybe two..."

"You've got all the quiet you ever want? Right here in London! Ron and I hardly see you these days! Harry, think about it..."

"I did, Hermione. I do. This is what I need." Harry faced his old friend across the small room serving as her home office. Outside, Ron chased Rose and Hugo around the table in the living room with muted shouts of exhilaration. "Besides..." he chewed his lip, "How else am I ever going to find the time to write my autobiography?"

"Point." Hermione chewed her lip and grew quiet for a second as she stared at the open flames of her crackling fireplace. The green flames Harry had used to come here had died down and only the ordinary orange remained. "Harry," she sighed. "Are you certain you want to do this? You're throwing a bright chance at a Ministry career away on a whim, and I can't watch you do this without at least a warning. Look, regardless of how much Hagrid means to you, even you must see this is mad. Absolutely mad! It's a hut, by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. At Hogwarts!"

"At Hogwarts, precisely!" Harry echoed and gave her a winning smile, the kind that worked on Robards and Ron and even at times on Ginny. "What better place to start, no? Besides, if I am still there in a few years' time, I'll keep an eye on Rose for you. Someone has to! You know she'll need all the eyes on her once she's out of your sight, or she'll blow the castle to bits during her first term!"

Hermione arched her eyebrow at him then glanced through the doorway at the rowdy family gathering of Granger-Weasleys, cheered on and led by Ron.

"Oh, Merlin. Fine, very well. You'll need to learn things the hard way sometime, and soon." Hermione's squinting gaze was wary, just as much as tired from reading the fine newsprint. (Every Department of Mysteries worker seemed perpetually overworked to Harry and Hermione was no exception.) She set her quill down and raised her hand to his shoulder. "I fully expect this to be temporary, you hear? If you're still hiding away in that hut by the time Hugo starts school, Hecate help me, I am marching onto Hogwarts grounds myself and rescuing you from the life of tending to giant spiders!"

"Deal!" Harry snorted. "You know me better than that. I won't be responsible for any of the giant spiders, promise." He paused for a second, considering the possibilities, and they all looked rather... quaint and uplifting. Downright idyllic. He blamed the fire, and the brandy he’d sampled just before coming to see Hermione and Ron. "The only thing that will stay overgrown is Hagrid's pumpkin patch."

 _This could actually work out well,_ Harry thought. _Between the pumpkin patch and the rest of Hagrid's garden, surely I'll find plenty of things to do to keep my hands busy._

_Mindless tasks. Early mornings. Poppy Pomfrey within walking distance whenever I need a Sleeping Draught or two. No reporters. No din of London traffic. Just a patch of tilled soil right outside and miles of magical forest right next to my door. A whole castle within walking distance if I feel the need for a hot meal and a hot bath. Fresh air. Lakeside views._

_Simple, honest work._

_Besides, if I tire myself out throughout the daytime, maybe then the nightmares won't be as frequent._

_Yeah, I bet this would all work out better than I ever expected._   
  
_Let's do this. I'm ready to try._


	2. Home Sweet Home

Harry's newest unopened letter, penned in Headmistress McGonagall's stern handwriting, arrived exactly on the second Monday of August. In just a couple of sparse sentences, it congratulated him on his new position and proclaimed him to be the new gamekeeper of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A few stray tabby hairs, a surprising find, clung to the rolled-up parchment. Headmistress McGonagall's signature curved like her pursed lips would have, suspicious at Harry's latest endeavour.

"P.S." The last line of the later stated. "Some of the ghosts may prove to be a disturbing sight. Try to pay them no mind if you can."

Harry shrugged at that. Having spent seven years sharing corridors and conversations with the Nearly-Headless Nick, Moaning Myrtle, and the Fat Friar, he figured he had nothing to worry about in that regard. After all, all his experience brought to mind friendly, if slightly disturbing encounters. Perhaps Headmistress McGonagall was obligated to disclose that part of the castle routine for new visitors' sake. Just in case. In any case, Harry paid it no further mind as instructed. He took Hogwarts Express from Platform 9 and ¾ a day before the students were due to arrive and sat all alone in the near empty compartment, eyeing the trolly as it teased him with gummy sweets and lollies and chocolate frogs. The greenery of the idyllic countryside was a blur through the sunlit window of the train. Harry's trunk rattled by his side on the seat. For just a second there, the gentle swaying of the moving train and the noise of the railroad took him back to happier times, when his summers with the Dursleys had come to a swift end at last and he, Ron and Hermione were together again, excited for the new school year yet to come. The train to Hogwarts had always felt like going on an adventure, and Harry still felt like it now, giddy and carefree, as if someone had reached right into Harry's chest, pulled his heart into a happy moment of his childhood despite the laws of time and space and spun it around for good measure like a time-turner's centrepiece. 

As he bid farewell to the leaving train at the station, he watched the billowing smoke and took a deep breath of the countryside air, sensing the autumn chill in the shadows but enjoying the last of sunny summer nonetheless. The crunchiness of the first fallen leaves at his feet, where the cobblestones ended and the tightly packed dirt began, the blades of grass shining emerald under the sun, and the butterflies hovering blithely over the patch of dandelions past an unexpected sight of a salmonberry bramble brought a sense of calm to him, the kind of peace that London with all its traffic and people could never offer.

Hogwarts was home. It always had been home. 

But more than that, the sight of the far mountains, the crisp Scotland air, and the knowledge of the wilderness spread for miles and miles between this place and any Muggle city had brought Harry unexpected peace. For just a second, he tossed his hair back, tilted his head up to the sky, took in the vast spread of it, the splatters of clouds and the deep blue hue, and wanted nothing more but to soar, like a bird drifting astray from its flock: up, up, up and onward. 

_Later,_ Harry promised himself. _I'll go for a proper ride once things settle down._

Harry had brought his broom with him and it hovered slow and leisurely over the winding road from the station to the castle, his trunk levitating by his side. It followed him all the way from Hogsmeade station and down the winding path marked by mud and stones, uphill and down he went, thankful for the presence of the broom as the muddy puddles from the nighttime rain spread across the path. So taken Harry was by watching the path twist and turn, he almost missed the sight of the magical markers indicating the spot where the castle wards no longer allowed Apparation. _Hogwarts! Home!_

At the entrance to Hogwarts grounds, he was greeted by the old Filch. The man was proudly perched, poised as an exotic cicada, with those angled elbows and knees atop the charmed hovering wheelchair. With one practically royal sweep of his gnarly hand, Filch directed a handful of house-elves to take Harry's trunk to his new dwelling, the wooden cabin once occupied by Rubeus Hagrid himself. Harry didn't need to inquire about his health to be informed of the state of Filch's affairs 'these creaky old bones aren't as young as they once were' but the man seemed to be downright pleased with his magical mode of transportation, his eyes lighting up whenever it picked up speed and handled the rocky cobblestones or stairs alike by hovering suspended on a cloud of shimmering steam released by an elaborate system of pipework at the back. Filch tapped his feet clad in striped socks and slippers and his hairy brow twitched in absolute delight.

Harry was happy for him as well. 

He was left alone to unpack in the wooden cabin, informed of the time the house-elves served dinner in the kitchens (in a couple hours). Harry stepped through the creaky doorway, stared at the ceiling free of hanging hams, sausages, and pheasants, swept his hand along the still-remaining bunches of dried flowers and herbs, spaced with an occasional garlic braid, and grinned at the homely bed in the corner which used to be covered with Hagrid's old patchwork blanket but was now home to a pile of quilts and pillows in festive Gryffindor colours. The bed was enormous enough for seven Harry Potters if they all stretched out side by side and cuddled closely, and Harry looked forward to spending his first night here trying it out. On the small shelf over the bed sat an ornate puzzle box which appeared to be carved by a patient hand, perhaps Hagrid's, out of solid oak. The elaborate knot around the keyhole formed a double heart and there was no matching key within sight. The surface of the box was polished and stained a deep red colour. It was the only object that Harry could identify as a trinket or perhaps a luxury amid everything else in the cabin.

Not far from the bed the hearth was already lit and a ribbon of steam rose from the copper kettle above it. Lacy curtains parted over the pair of windows facing the view of the lake. The smell of sweet pea and fiddlehead ferns, crushed mushrooms and tilled soil wafted through the half-opened door from the direction of the Forbidden Forest. He wondered if the spice berries were still in season, should he choose to go walking past the first line of the trees and venture into the woods this week. But sure enough, a bowlful of them sat by the fireplace, lit orange by the sun and as inviting as any dessert the Great Hall would offer during the first feast of the school year. The cabin was all one room, but it was cosy and bright, with the new festive throw rugs and a tall tapestry of woven clouds over the blue horizon hanging over the bed. With a pair of silvery sconces glimmering in the far corner, Harry knew there'd be enough light even in the evening. The interior practically glistened now compared to how he remembered it before. In fact, the entire cabin had gained a fresh coat of paint and a new shine, scrubbed, undoubtedly by Hagrid's patient hands. Harry left his opened trunk on the floor and sat down at the kitchen table, the giant chairs comfortable, if not quite sized to his height.

All that this place was missing was Hagrid's rock cakes to go with the pot of tea.

Yes, this was a place Harry didn't mind spending time alone in, not in the slightest.

He'd spent the rest of the afternoon before dinner pulling weeds from the impressively sprawled jungle of tomato plants, which grew out from the three planted rows. The sweet fragrance of hops wafted downwind from the rustic trellis up the small hill, past a patch of wheat, and on the hillside sunflower heads swayed and towered over the assortment of poppies and spangles attracting the buzz of the nearby beehive.

The cabin seemed unlived in, but the garden told a different story. Hagrid must've stayed here long enough over the summer during his final year at Hogwarts, tending to it so Harry would have quite a sight to return to. The least Harry could do was to return the favour and keep it going past Hagrid's departure. He told himself that a trip to Professor Sprout, and then to Hogsmeade, was in order. Soon, the pumpkin patch would need proper care, and he did not know what fertilizer to use for... those tiny stalks which seemed red enough at the roots to eventually, with attention and care, become beetroots. Did the sweet peas need watering daily? Why weren't there instructions left on the odd cotton ribbons which were apparently labels to mark the species of the plant for every flowerbed, patch, and trellis in Hagrid's garden?

Madam Sprout was delighted to help, of course, and soon Harry found himself elbows deep in the dirt every sunny evening, tilling soil and weeding and levitating buckets of lake-water toward an assortment of plants and herbs. Even the Forest proved to be a welcoming sight, despite all the horrors Harry remembered from his school years. He spent his first Saturday off hunting for chanterelles, but came home with a handkerchief filled with ripe blackberries and a pocketful of hazelnuts instead. His lips and hands were stained purple that evening as the hazelnuts roasted, hot and dry, over the fire of the hearth. _Ron would love this,_ he thought more than once. _There are no spiders in sight and the views are amazing._

Harry's nights were restful here, more so than in the city. His days flowed from one to the other like waterfalls connecting a series of shallow pools. On a Sunday, exhausted from all the walking and the garden work settling deep in his bones still, he trudged up to the garden -- the hops needed harvesting and the pumpkins had overgrown enough to take over the flower beds with poppies in them. The work reminded Harry of his days spent hiding in Mrs Dursley's flower beds in summers. Except this was no begonias. No privet. The mystery plant in the centre of the poppies had a tiny star-shaped pod so it must have not been a weed. Harry left it alone and moved on to uproot the sprouting cluster of chickweed sprouting in the midst of the flowers. He fixed the trellis and tied up the sweet pea. The task of tending to the garden was certainly welcome and occupied him for the afternoon, until, at last, he drew the back of his hand against his sweaty brow at the casual 'ahem', thinking either Filch or Madam Sprout had dropped by. It was odd that whoever it was that spoke snuck up on him without leaving a trace of a shadow. Harry blinked up against the overcast sky until his gaze settled on a ghostly apparation in front of him. Like an unwelcome crow, the ghost - both familiar and shiver-inducing - stared back with a beaky, brilliant glare.

_Snape? Shit! It is him._

So unexpected the sight of the man was, Harry took a step back from the hovering sight of his old professor, an all around greasy git, Death Eater, murderer, saviour, spy - it was a bit complicated - and promptly landed with his boot in the empty bucket, sending it clattering down the hill.

"Well, it's certainly no surprise to see you making a ruckus," grumbled Snape's ghost. "Mr Potter. Do carry on being of some use around here." With the incline of his head, and a swift turn, Snape strode several inches above the grass blades through the crisp air, past the beaten path, right toward the shadow of the first line of trees, ghostly robes-a-billowing. He disappeared inside the woods before Harry could recover and respond with anything other than a gaping mouth and a silent scream.

 _Shit_ shit _shit._

_Bloody hell. Now I see why McGonagall had warned me about the ghosts._

_Does he do that often? It's so bloody weird to see him see-through and silver, and out of the dungeons no less, spending time in the sun. At all! I suppose it's not like he can get a sunburn these days. I have to speak with her, I need to know more._

_  
_ _What happened? Why is he here? When did he first arrive? What else did he say?_

"... What did he say!?" Harry spoke in a state of animated excitement on Monday, steaming cuppa forgotten as McGonagall and he enjoyed their afternoon tea. 

"I'm surprised he spoke with you at all, Harry," Headmistress McGonagall answered, "He's only been sighted twice before but never spoke with anyone yet. Not that the glares aren't expressive enough."

It was then that she informed him of the first time Severus Snape was seen by Albus Dumbledore's tomb, and later of Slughorn's encounter with him in the dungeons. Apparently, from the state of Snape's disapproving stares, the cauldrons needed a thorough polishing.

*

The second time Snape appeared in front of Harry it was already almost October. The pumpkin patch had overtaken the flower beds and Harry had spent several weekdays propping up the pumpkins until all sides of the giant gourds had turned orange under the sparse sunshine. They've needed plenty of lake-water daily but Harry's hard work levitating the bucket paid off and these days, whenever he tapped a finger against the waxed side of the largest of them, it rang out like the biggest copper cauldron; the sound echoing and then dying deep within. Not long now, until they were all ripe and ready before the rainy season set in. Maybe another week or two, give or take. Harry could just picture the house-elves' impressed stares as he wheeled the entire batch of pumpkins into the kitchens. Now that was a proper harvest!

Harry was bent over, knees in the dirt, arse up, sleeves rolled up and tending to the beets, as an indignant 'ahem' greeted him and forced him upwards from his position.

"Potter, a minute of your time."

"Um," said Harry, feeling a pang of shame ( _Couldn't save him! Any of them. So sorry, Professor._ ) followed by a heavy dose of surrealism setting in. He wiped the dirt off his fingers on his trousers and squashed the urge to stand up straighter, faced with Snape's hovering disdain. Conversing with recently manifested ghosts seemed like a bad idea, especially with the ghosts Harry had known while they still lived. And yet, even in death, Snape looked as imposing and as compelling as he was when he was still teaching at Hogwarts and Harry was all of eleven years old.

"I believe I am supposed to pass along a message."

Harry blinked. Snape didn't seem like a particularly willing or enthusiastic messenger. For anyone. In life or in death.

"You will need paper and quill, it's a potions recipe, quite lengthy."

"A recipe... Is it yours?"

"I don't quite remember the origin, just the content, which is in itself a disturbing occurrence." Snape frowned, unhappy and exasperated, as if nursing a headache. "Now if you could fetch something to write with, I will dictate it, and we will all get on with our day."

Snape's insistence was quite odd. Harry had read somewhere that, unlike the handful of ghosts that stayed on for centuries around the castle, most of the ghosts in the wizarding world were the sort that lingered only for a short while, repeating certain steps in their ethereal existence until a mission was fulfilled and they simply moved on, vanished and stopped... being. Perhaps Snape was fulfilling this very mission - unfinished business in the world of the living, that is - and would disappear never to be seen after dictating the final recipe to Harry. Right now. Right here. And then he'd be gone for good.

That hardly seemed fair.

"Wait," Harry said. "Um, Professor Snape..." he didn't know how to break this to Snape gently. "You are aware you've died, I hope."

"Quite," Snape spat looking down on himself and spreading his arms as if demonstrating the obvious. "Now, as you don't seem to be otherwise occupied, do summon your writing supplies."

"H-hang on! What if... you tell me whatever it is you need to tell me and go. Disappear, I mean. Move on. Maybe we should think about this."

"What is there to think about?"

"D-don't you want to make the occasion special? Maybe - on a certain moment. Plan it out. Speak with the Headmistress. Visit all the places you want here, to say goodbye."

"Headmistress McGonagall and I have said everything there was to say to each other before my death. She was left thorough instructions on Hogwarts' care and management." Snape pursed his lips. "But perhaps you have a point. There may be a place and a moment that was... not entirely unpleasant which I'd like to revisit. I do... require your help."

"Um, ok?" Harry shrugged. It didn't seem so bad, helping a dead man fulfill his last wish, who would ever say no to something like that? "Anything. Just say the word."

"Do you know how to fish, Potter?"

"Fish? As in, um," Harry glanced at the collection of Hagrid's - or all his now, Harry reckoned - fishing rods leaning against the side of the cabin and made a vague casting motion. "I suppose I can learn." _How hard can it be?_ "Do you need to catch anything in particular or -"

This was all too new. The sun shone brightly, the sparrows chirped, and the bees buzzed merrily over the sweet peas and the poppies, and here he was, conversing with the ghost of Severus Bloody Snape, sizing up Harry's fishing poles. This kind of thing simply did not happen at Hogwarts when he was a student.

"Excellent. Tomorrow morning at 6am sharp. Meet you at the north end of the Black Lake. I will lead you the rest of the way there. Bring your fishing pole and do not dawdle. Plan on spending at least four hours..."

"Four hours of _what_?"

"Well, it's not as if I can wield a fishing pole myself these days." Snape bared his teeth. "So it falls to you to assist me. Bring rock salt, pepper, and lemon peel. Shouldn't be difficult to remember, even for you, Potter. Besides that, a simple bass or a trout will do, but leave it to you to mess things up so we'll plan for at least four hours."

"Is it for a potion?" Harry had never heard of a common potion using freshly caught fish. Pepper was used in plenty of various ointments and potions. But trout? Jellied eel eyes were far more common. Perhaps Snape needed it for an obscure ritual. Or a spell. "Or..."

"No, Potter. Lunch."

"Oh."

"I will require a properly burnt offering over an open fire, of course, in order to taste it fully. If you catch extra, you may cook yours as little or as long as you like."

Harry blinked. "Er... all right. Trout it is."  
  
Of all the last things in the world that Severus Snape wanted to do before his time was up, fishing at the Great Lake seemed to be the activity of choice. Harry couldn't say he blamed him. It seemed... nice. _Right then. Tomorrow morning, bright and early._ Harry cast one scrutinizing look at the fishing pole collection and the neglected, long dried out worm bin next to it.

_Shit, I'd best start digging for bait._


	3. The Fishing Trip

Sleep didn't come easy to Harry that night, so when his alarm - a radio charmed to burst into song from a certain station - sounded at five-thirty, he was the first to groan and then spring upright, hit his head on the low-hanging shelf, and curse out the unfamiliar layout of the cabin. 

"Lumos! Shit. Accio trousers."

He wore his socks to bed in anticipation of an early start, and had tiptoed his way to where his boots were placed by the door of the cabin. He stumbled around, brushing his hair back and pulling on a thick woolen jumper. It was cold by the lake, especially this early in the morning.

Snape waited for him just as promised, by the northern side of the lake, right where the cobbled path ended and the dirt track began. Steamy layers of fog rose from the still water, pierced by the sun rays. Dewdrops hung off the branches of every bush and every grass blade, and Harry had to cast a drying charm on his legs several times over while following Snape down the winding path. He'd stop, cast the spell, and then rush to catch up, staring at Snape's hovering backside in a meaningful and grumpy manner. It wasn't as if the surly sod had to worry about his robes getting wet from the dew, not anymore anyway.

Snape led Harry past the bushes where the blackberries and the wild plums hung ripe and dark, glistening with the morning sun. Into the ravine that trapped the chill to the point where Harry could see his own breath steam in front of him, and to the sunny clearings still-green and festive with dandelions and heather, as if summer had never passed. When at last the snaking path turned and revealed the view of the water, Harry gasped at the sight of the castle and the aqueduct cast in the golden light and reflected perfectly down below, and realised that they've gone further than he ever expected.

How did Snape know this spot existed anyway? Did he come here as a student, or perhaps a teacher?

Did he ever bring Harry's mum here, perhaps. Didn't they grow up near a small river? Perhaps it was soothing to see the water of the lake and think of home.

"So, um, how'd you ever find this place?" Harry asked, as he set the pole down and found the place for his rucksack, testing out the shoreline and eyeing the nearest tree branch as a decent candidate to prop up his pole.

"I'd been collecting ingredients," Snape said. "Gillyweed grows nearby. I hadn’t expected to come across Hagrid when I did, but he was fishing and he had a spare pole. The bumbling oaf invited me to sit with him. It was... not entirely unpleasant and we continued on the tradition for some time."

"Ah," Harry summarised, digging a tin can full of worms from his rucksack and setting it down. "So I'm your Hagrid replacement. Makes sense."

"I doubt you can fill anyone's shoes but your own, Potter. But if you don't care to get yours wet, for what it's worth, past that boulder is a decent fishing spot."

"Got it." He settled in and surveyed the surroundings. The spot did seem promising. "Hey, meant to ask." Harry winced as he struggled to hook the worm. "Were you and Hagrid friends?"

Snape stared at the open waters, as ethereal as the steamy fog lifting from them, his sombre outline all greys and purples as opposed to the pinks and yellows of the sky caught beneath the water's surface. 

"We were never enemies," Snape said at last, as if that was the most important thing he could think of. "I appreciated that."

"I see." Harry smiled as he cast, for the first time, watching the bobber swing in a wide arc and flicker as it settled into the lake, past the water lilies. A dragonfly took off, disturbed by the commotion. Somewhere to the side of them a heron called out a warning of intruders. Harry sat still, until nature quieted down again, and accepted them as a given, he watched the bubbles rising from the water and the tips of Snape's boots, airborne, but perfectly poised to begin his stride.

"I am glad you enjoyed each other's company. Um, I'm sorry, I should have brought a second rod, for you, I mean."

"One is quite enough," Snape shrugged and regarded Harry with an especially scathing look. "I am certain you can manage the boredom of sitting still in front of one somehow. After all the foolish wand-waving you've managed as a student, this should be familiar territory, no?"

"Hmph."

There was the question of taking the wrong side in the war, or maybe the right one, considering Snape's spying, and there was an entirely different question of Snape's friendship with Harry's mum and the fact he didn't even bother to save Harry's dad. But suddenly, in the presence of a ghost, earthly... meanderings seemed so surreal. Snape died, after all, a hero's death no less. And in the light of that, any questions about his life's choices seemed oh so very secondary: he paid for them with the ultimate sacrifice of his life a thousand times over. He was a contrary sod, grumpy and grudgy as fuck, but he was always that, and maybe the man truly couldn't help his nature.

It took a few hours for the fish to start biting, and by lunchtime, the net bag Harry had brought along and anchored to the shore with a stick held several medium-sized trout and a couple bass. He sized up the bunch, picking the largest bass as Snape's share before considering a place for a fire. 

He set down his fishing pole in the centre of the y-shaped branch he stuck into the muddy water and left it alone. Soon enough, with plenty of effort, a pile of logs, branches, and dry leaves only waited for a single Incendio to become an inviting campfire. 

Harry dug through his pockets for a pocket-knife, grateful for his former self's foresight to start carrying it around. Snape hmphed at his clumsy efforts at gutting but the silence between them remained commentary-free until all three fish were skewered and seasoned, suspended over the crackling flames on a contraption of several long sticks and Harry had gone back to the lake to rinse fish guts from underneath his fingernails. He was brushing fish scales out of his hair and flicking them off his robes as he sensed Snape beside him.

"Over your ear," Snape gestured, his voice soft. 

"Huh?" Harry looked up to him. "Oh." Things were a bit awkward then, as Snape's hand lifted and pointed at the side of Harry's face. "Scales." It's almost as if Snape had tried brushing them aside himself, but that would have been impossible. Harry's hand went up and almost slid through Snape's on its way, as he got a hold of three thick scales stuck together to the top of his ear and flicked them off into the water.

"Thanks." It was the closest Harry had been to a ghost in years and he couldn't contain his fascination. The highlights in Snape's hair, the way Snape's glare was still dark and stern, and the way the shadows in the corner of his lips showed, in comparison to the glowing paleness of his nose.

Snape didn't pull back. Perhaps it was even intentional. Perhaps it was just a reluctance to give up space and Harry was reading too much into it all.

"You'd best check on the fire." Snape suggested after a while. So Harry did. He left the largest fish over the fire to char over for Snape to enjoy the smell of cooked food and pulled the remaining fish off as it finished cooking, piling it on top of layered burdock leaves. 

Snape hmphed at Harry's efforts to balance the soft layer of leaves on his knee. "Are you not in possession of a wand," he chastised. Harry grumbled but transfigured them into a semi-decent plate, and then even made a fork out of a nearby twig. "You haven't got any, so it seemed unfair," he murmured by way of explanation.

Snape's lips twitched. "I'm not eating. Not in a conventional way. But nonetheless, I do appreciate the thought, and," he leaned over the fire and let the smoke pass through him. "And the feast. The seasonings are a nice touch," he admitted after a pause.

"Thanks." Harry grinned, feeling especially pleased for spending the time to take apart and roast one of Hagrid's garlic braids over the fireplace overnight, until the slices had turned brown and brittle. He found the jar of dried lemon slices by the side of the stove and plucked fresh dill weed from the impromptu herb garden on the sunny side of the cabin before heading out. It was still wet with dew and turned fragrant and wilting, tucked into the pocket of his rucksack.

There was nothing like proper, freshly-prepared food after a hard day's adventure on the lakeside, in the company of someone familiar, something that Harry came to not mind so much and even enjoy.

"We ought to stay longer," Harry suggested after their lunch was a tasty memory and the fish bones had been tossed into the dying fire, as he rushed toward his pole, having spotted the bobber go under. It flashed and disappeared again. "It's a shame to leave now, I can bring back a dozen trout between now and sunset."

They sat quietly side by side as all around them nature moved on with its day. Harry couldn't believe how pleasant it would be to just sit and share silence with someone. Someone he admired. Someone no longer a teacher.

A fellow war hero. A legend.

A memory, now. One Harry vowed to hold onto.

Over time, as Harry marked the passing of it with fish caught and lost, the chill settled in the air but not enough to warrant another fire. They watched the sunlight strike the waves and scatter, as the tree leaves - golden and fiery-red - settled on the water's surface. The waves lapped at the lakeside rocks and the mosquitoes danced over the rustling reeds.

With the sun going down, it was almost pleasant.

"I believe I'm ready now," Snape said as the evening hush settled over the lakeshore. His lips twitched as he continued to say something else... "Now, if you -"

"Snape, wait," Harry overrode whatever Snape was to say next. This was all far too soon! Whatever recipe Snape had to put to paper, surely didn't need to be written out so suddenly and swiftly! "Maybe we can do this in the morning?" _Or in a year or two?_ "Are you sure there isn't anything more I can help you with - Another fishing trip?" It seemed so sad, so final, to end things so quickly, now that he and Snape finally... did what? Share a meal. Had a brief moment of fun? This was mental.

"I believe there is no sense in delaying things further," Snape murmured. "So be it. Ready?"

Harry pursed his lips. Over the lake, the sunset spilled orange and golden. The lukewarm heat settled over the land and the water, the air fragrant with rotting leaves and the freshness of lakewater unstirred by the breeze. An occasional splash of a tentacle or a fin sounded in the murk of the shadowy, cool waters. The insects buzzed, perching on the yellowing blades sticking out of the muddy shallows. Dragonflies and moths alike. The waterbugs clustered and clung to the last of the sunlight reaching through the water surface. Harry watched them for a while before summoning the roll of parchment, spreading it on the flat surface of a mossy boulder, and pulling a pencil out of his rucksack. "All right," he said, taking Snape's solemn figure in, to remember him by. "Ready."

He should have brought an inkwell. A pencil is all he had on hand. Stupid. It seemed so quaint, so informal, not an instrument to use to send someone off to the final unknown.

Slowly, as if dictating a homework assignment, Snape began to recite these strange series of instructions. Harry took his time to write them out, letter by letter, in the last dying rays of the sun by the water's edge. "Three drops of Quirinus McQueen's Quadruple Fungi elixir..."

"Quadruple. Three drops. Got it. Do you know what it's for?"

Snape shook his head. "Only that the recipe needs to be followed to the letter. Go on."

"Ready."

"The pulp of one crystal fruit, unbruised. Brandied and aged until dark purple in colour. Two frozen tears, unexposed to sunlight."

Crystal fruit? Huh, that's not something you hear every day. Why would anyone put that in brandy. The ingredients sounded so out of place, not the kind Harry ever got to work with in Snape's classes. "Do we even have frozen tears in the potions stores? I thought they were only used in the medieval era, as a cure for leech allergies, or something." Harry had no clue about their use but the old habit to ramble his way through the Potions essays was a hard habit to kick, even now, in Snape's presence.

"I have had some in my stores, and I don't see a reason for them to disappear. Unless they were deliberately stolen by someone _up_ to no good, like you, yourself once were, Mis-ter Potter."

"Ahem. OK, next."

"A generous pinch of dried skin flakes from the mature midnight squid."

"Now this is definitely not something you've kept around, tell me."

"Live squid can be ordered. Or caught here, if you're patient. There's a charm you can cast on the lures."

"Oh, let me guess, at midnight?"

Snape raised his eyebrows and carried on. "Seven stardrops, crushed to powder."

"Seven. All right. Easy," Harry said. "Er, what's a stardrop, again?"

Snape shook his head. "I am not aware of anything by that name. This is precisely why I am suspicious of the entire thing. I ought to know all the ingredients and yet, nothing about this list makes sense. Regardless, I suppose you must keep writing things down."

Perhaps it was all a dream, a nonsensical dream, a rant, a chant, merely intended just to help Snape pass onto the other side. Perhaps only writing down the ingredients, the act of dictating them to Harry, meant that Snape would be released, free to move on to the next stage of his existence, whatever it may be. Maybe that was the purpose of the ritual. Harry braced himself, determined to see it through, no matter what. 

"Stir only with the fin of the resurrected ghostfish in one cup of water from the Great Lake, collected at the night opposite of the Feast of the Winter Star and brought to boil in a long-favoured teacup in the centre of a forest firestorm, started in the clearing where the ferns fiddle and the grass grows tallest."

Resurrected ghostfish... fiddling ferns... now that was certainly a product of a weary, disturbed mind. Unless the instructions meant fiddlehead ferns. That sort of made sense, but ghostfish? What sort of fish is that? Who would ever dream up resurrecting it and then using its fin but not the rest? It was so odd and yet so specific. _The Feast of the Winter Star. Right then, that's a fancy name for Yule celebration, haven't heard that one in a while_ , Harry thought. _OK, so the opposite of that is... midsummer's night. Great! That much is clear. We're getting somewhere. What's next?_

Silence met him. 

_Is it over?_ A pang of worry flared, and sent him scrambling for words, for time. _Already? Wait..._

He stared up, fully expecting - dreading - an empty space left behind after this particular ghost's departure, but glowing an odd shade of magenta in the dying rays of the setting sun, Snape stood, silent, as they both shared that space together. The lake's evening chill murmured of the upcoming winter. Of another year coming to an eventual end. The day has certainly ended with the sky turning a dark shade of purple, with the glimpse of twinkling stars to the east and the colorful splatter of sunset in the direction opposite. The elms and the poplars stretched toward the heavens. When all is said and done, would whatever is left of Snape on this earth just... fade, or would he wink out of existence, or drift like stardust toward the sky? Would his eyes keep on holding Harry's gaze like before?

Harry held his breath and for the life of him, couldn't blink, didn't want to close his eyes, should he miss a moment as significant as this. _Look at me,_ Snape told him once, because Harry's eyes somehow mattered to him most, so no matter what, Harry would keep on looking.

He drew a breath, his throat was dry and stinging. Twin trails of wet warmth slid down his cheeks.

Somehow, Snape was still there. Remained there, in the most anticlimactic, but heartstopping way possible. He was still visible. He didn't fade, didn't disappear into stardust, didn't blow away on the wind like smoke. He was just... present, as incorporeal and imposing as before, hovering a hand width up from the tips of the grass stalks and staring down at Harry along his sizeable, glowing nose.

"I... don't understand," Snape said at last, the statement punctuating the sudden burst of joy that Harry told himself he wasn't allowed to feel. "Nothing's changed."

Harry did his best to contain his out-of-place grin, because somehow this seemed like Christmas came early, and Snape's company was an incredibly welcome sight. "Shall we head back?" he offered. "Unless you still want that trout."

Snape arched his eyebrow at Harry, his glowing form providing scarce light, as if a mild lumos, better than nothing, in any case, to navigate the lakeshore in the dark. "I suppose you do need your rest, Potter. I've taken up enough for your day."

They walked back in relative silence, a cluster of moths flitting through Snape's torso, as attracted to him as to any candlelight. Ectoplasm clung to their wings even after they drifted toward other sources of light closer to the castle. Harry too got a sudden urge to run his fingers through Snape's elbow or shoulder and see if any of the glow would remain on his fingertips as he pulled them away.

He didn't dare, of course - this was Snape after all! - but it didn't stop him from picturing his palm lit a pale shade of blue in the dark nonetheless. The exact color of Snape's robes which clung to his bony figure.

"Careful, Potter, there's a ravine coming up," Snape cautioned him as they got closer to the cabin. "Would be a shame if you cracked your head open."

"Thanks. Um. Snape? You'd still be here tomorrow, right?" For a brief second Harry questioned what would happen if he goes to sleep and Snape would just never appear again. It would have been tragic, just as tragic as his death.

"I don't plan on going anywhere."

"C-could you stay for a bit, just until I put away the fishing stuff, maybe."

Snape shrugged. "It's not as if I have any pressing matters to attend to."

Harry hung up the fish off the rack outside. _Cooling charm. Preserving spells. Done._ This sort of easy, mindless work was easy even with Snape watching. "Hey. Listen... um... when you go?"

"Yes, Mister Potter?"

"Nothing. Er, just be here? Tomorrow." 

Snape's lips quirked. "You worry too much."

Snape didn't drift toward the castle until the sky was resplendent with autumn stars, as bright and heavy as the countless berries in the bramble. Harry watched the lone shining figure retrace the path he usually took for dinner until it grew dim and small and for the first time in twenty-four hours clung to an unexpected hope in his heart for a better tomorrow.


	4. The Recipe

In the morning, the sun shone through the twin windows of the cabin. The recipe written out in pencil sat on Harry's kitchen table just where he left it last night. As Harry made his way to the castle for breakfast, avoiding the most recent group of rowdy students, he spotted the flash of a ghostly figure in the abandoned corridor: Snape stopped striding, inclined his head in greeting and then turned on his heel and kept on walking away. Harry nodded and couldn't help but grin. Snape noticed him. He deliberately stopped and ensured Harry saw him as well.

Harry's day was much brighter after that, now that he didn't have to worry about Snape's disappearance and could focus on the task at hand: collecting all the ingredients mentioned in the mysterious recipe. Some of them were familiar and others, plain puzzling, as if they came out of a fairytale rather than a potions book.

_What the hell is a stardrop,_ Harry had asked himself for the hundredth time. Even so, he did not know. Even the library held no good answers besides a short reference to the magical seed pod, as small and as rare as the sighting of a falling star on the wintry night sky, a product of a charmed bloom from a fern which obviously produced nothing remotely similar to flowers or fruit.

Until...

"A stardrop, eh? That's not something you see every day," Aberforth told Harry as Harry sat and waited by the counter, polishing the empty glass and pouring a splash of Firewhisky down, then sliding it down the elbow-smoothed table surface. "Well, if you're after one," he made his way to the dusty mantel in the corner, to the delighted bleating of two goat kids who scrambled after him, and reached for the bottle of what seemed to be spirits, vodka perhaps, or clear whisky. The bottle was small and ornate, dusty and cobwebbed on top, like most of the curiosities here in Aberforth's domain. "Best look here, lad, it's probably the last one you'll see in your lifetime."

_Last one,_ Harry thought. _What? Wait! The recipe calls for seven of these!_ He stared through the murky glass and the liquid at the tiny floating seedpod in the shape of the five-pronged star. The star itself was bright purple, smooth and as tiny as a blueberry. It had a bright hue to it, and it was attached to a tiny sprig with fluffy greenery. Every leaf was as delicate as a dill weed sprout. 

_This is a stardrop? Oh. I think... I hope I've seen one before. Just like the odd weed back in Hagrid's garden. I wonder..._

Harry's hand closed over the glass. "How much for the whole bottle," he asked Abe. 

Abe cleared his throat. "It's an old trinket. A treasure, really. Wouldn't sell it to anyone, but just for you, Harry, twenty galleons."

Harry dug through his wallet and produced a stack of twelve. "I'll owl you the rest."

"Whenever," Abe said. "I know you're good for it. Careful drinking that whiskey, lad, it has a kick to it. What do you need a stardrop for?"

"It's a project..." Harry thought of explaining further but delving into the detail of a fishing trip with Snape, of Harry terrified to lose Snape all over again, of Snape's hooked nose glowing in the afternoon sun on the lakeshore, of watching his figure grow smaller and disappear under the upturned bowl of starry sky over Hogwarts, well, he couldn't put it in words. "Do you know of any others? I'll buy them all, regardless of how much they cost."

Abe shrugged. "Like I said, I think this is the last one around. That I know of, at least. I'd send an inquiry to the papers if you're looking for more. Best of luck to you!"

Harry clutched his prized find. "Got it, thanks, Aberforth." 

"Anytime."

Harry mounted his broom and hurried back to Hogwarts. That particular Sunday afternoon was festive and loud; the Hogsmeade streets teemed with students rushing from one store to the other. Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick supervised the boisterous lot. They waved at Harry as he soared over them, carrying his precious find back to the cabin. Once he got home, he set the bottle down on the table and stared at it and the pencilled-in recipe on a rectangular piece of parchment pinned to the cabin wall.

_Crystal fruit. Frozen tears. Seven stardrops._

_Ghostfish. Resurrected._

_Lakewater._

_A stardrop. What if?_ It took Harry a good five minutes to find the right spot past the sweet peas and amid the poppies that had the mysterious weed growing. He knelt over it and surrounded it with three twigs with a bright strip of fabric tied to them, lest he ever lose it again. Another week and he'd have to transfer it into a pot and bring it inside, to give it a chance of surviving the winter. In the meantime, he summoned a bucket and watered the plant. It looked like a fern, fluffy and fuzzy, with the fine lattice of leaves as delicate as a dill sprout and a small seed pod, still green, but a similar shape to what Harry had spotted inside Aberforth's bottle. 

_Could it be? Abe said these were rare. What are the odds?_

He looked around the clearing for a similar plant or several but this was the only one there. The rest were the usual grasses and weeds and flowers, with an occasional dandelion or a daisy. _I need at least five more._

_Where would I find them?_ Harry marched back to the cabin, prepared to write a letter to the Prophet with an inquiry. An advert requesting the impossible. Maybe that would be enough to start with.

_Perhaps Snape would be able to help me. It's his instructions, after all._

_I wonder, what does it actually do? It has to be important. After all, this was something Snape is meant to tell me. It clearly does something very significant._

_I suppose we'll find out, if I can find all the ingredients and brew it successfully. By New Year's? I hope so!_

It was much later, at supper time, when he saw Snape again. The fish soup bubbled over the fireplace, smelling of baked rainbow trout (not much different from an ordinary trout), and dried gillyweed, which lent a dubiously swampy undertone to an otherwise appetising meal. Harry tried to rescue the meal with a small handful of peppercorns and let it sit over the dying flames. It was a weird mixture, but there was something satisfying about knowing that all of the ingredients in the pot, save the salt and the peppercorns, were collected by Harry's own hand. He'd dried the flat sheets of various seaweed from the lake just last week, watching them flake and crumble as they were laid out next to the burning fire. The hazelnuts were already roasted and crushed to crumbs, ready for sprinkling into his porridge with honey, or over freshly baked buns. There was a quiet kind of magic in consuming something plucked from the land or the water of a place dear to his heart. It brought on an odd sense of belonging, of peace, the knowledge that Harry's strength and energy to carry on walking depended on Hogwarts, as if Harry quite literally carried pieces of this place within him.

As he turned his back to the stove, he watched the ghost of Snape make his way through Harry's flourishing garden and to his doorstep.

"Hello," he greeted the ghost, the man. "Come in, just in time for supper." Harry charmed the candles to burn brighter, spooned out a generous helping of soup into a bowl for himself and broke apart the crusty baguette, delivered, along with a bottle of fresh milk and a dozen eggs, by a house-elf from the castle stores. 

"Would you like some?" 

Snape arched his eyebrow but nodded, briefly, so Harry dipped half of the bread chunk into the stew and tossed it onto the flames. Watching it hiss and burn was therapeutic, as the curliques of smoke spread upwards, as if rising from a blown out candle, in a smoky offering for the ghostly realm. Snape leaned over appreciatively and inhaled, nostrils twitching. "You'll find it could use more pepper," he noted. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Harry slurped up the hot broth. Snape was right, it needed more pepper. "How are you?" he asked as they settled around the hearth. Snape seemed pleased today, sitting down on one of Hagrid's tall chairs, the tips of his boots angled toward the fire, as if the fire still warmed his feet.

"Well." Snape answered, right as Harry began to doubt he'd heard the question at all. "I haven't visited here for quite awhile," Snape confided then, his hands steepled over his lap and his ghostly face firelit. The warmth was kind to his angular features and made him look younger and rested. "I'd forgotten how peaceful Hagrid made it look like, living next door to the wilderness day to day. I see you've settled in as well."

"Mm. I like it here," Harry smiled, between the spoonfuls of soup. "Didn't think I would. Gardening never seemed like my thing but I really do like it now that I've tried it." He thought of the poppyseeds in need of harvesting, of the freshly fixed trellis for the hops and the sweet peas. The last of the tomatoes needed to be taken off the vine and carried to the castle. His days were simple here, as simple as the next bucket of water and an occasional student visiting after class to gawk at the sight of the Wizarding World’s hero digging in the dirt. "Harry Potter, the Man Who Lived, spending his days willing pumpkins to grow. I ought to write to Neville, he'd appreciate the irony!"

"The irony is indeed appreciated." Snape's mouth quirked. "I would've never expected you to have the patience of a fisherman, Potter."

"Hey, I've got patience in spades. And you know what else? Guess!"

Snape's brow lifted. "Hmm." 

" _Accio booze bottle_. Look!" Harry beamed, incredibly proud of himself, thrusting the narrow bottle toward Snape for the examination. It did not have a label.

"You'll have to excuse me, I am not fit to consume... spirits at the moment," Snape deadpanned.

"No, look! Check this out," Harry tipped the bottle upside down, stirring the tiny pod within to life. "It's your stardrop, innit?"

Snape's gaze grew serious, as he scrutinized the tiny star-shaped object, bright purple even in the hearth's light. "Are you certain?" He lifted his hand as if he wanted to tap the glass itself but instead ran his hand through the bottle, as if feeling the bottled find from the inside. Harry wondered what that sensation would've felt like. 

"Pretty certain." Harry set the bottle down and pointed at the square sheet of parchment, now pinned to the wooden wall in a clear, lit spot. The recipe. The plan. "I want to make this. I have to."

Snape's mouth narrowed as he rose from the chair, floating closer to the parchment and reading the list again from top to bottom.

"I'll need your help for it. Will you help? Come on, what have we got to lose?"

"Reconstructing a potion so complex from half remembered rantings and your chicken scratches. Ridiculous!" But despite his tone, Snape's stare grew interested. He tapped his lips with one long, pointed finger. "It's difficult to tell what else we need without knowing what it does. Worst case scenario, we will lose time and effort, I suppose. Nothing I haven't got in spades. You, however." Snape turned to Harry. "Are you certain you wish to spend your time on this... endeavour."

Harry shrugged. "I need some decent hobby, don't I? Can't keep on fishing all day, apparently. That takes _patience._ "

He enjoyed the sight of a curling lip. "Hmph."

*

November came and went with the first snowstorm of the season, and Harry's advert in the paper yielded some results. The parcel from Romania, exchanged for a ridiculous amount of galleons from Harry's bank vault, had arrived one morning: a sturdy wooden box with a round jar, and a stardrop, a real deal, within. This one was wrinkled and small, as if it had lasted for centuries and shrunk with age, weathering many rainy seasons. It had a shade of dark violet, greying at the tips. Harry had set the jar on the windowsill, next to the bottle of booze and the potted plant rescued from the garden before the winter chill set in. He had left it in the sunny spot and developed a habit of watering it daily. From that fuzzy green branch, a seed pod had dangled, turning a pale purple, just like the rest of Harry's collection.

_It has to be a stardrop. I know it is! A lucky find._

Harry had taken to looking at his small collection over time and counting out the stardrops from left to right. They sat there, bathed in sunlight early in the mornings as it fell through the iced-over glass or as the twinkling stars pockmarked the nighttime sky. Full of promise. Of mystery.

He consulted McGonagall, Sprout, and Slughorn. He'd peppered Hermione with questions over Floo. He brought his mystery plant inside once the weather turned cold and looked over the garden grounds for more of the tender sprouts until the ground was iced over and he was certain that no plants would grow for the next few months. He sent letters out to potioneers and storekeepers as far as Istanbul but no further leads emerged.

Snape usually dropped by Harry's hut for supper every few days. Harry had grown to expect a certain surly apparition to pay him a visit on Saturday evenings. They marked the time with shared meals, a toast, a splash of wine onto the glowing embers for Snape, and, as it hissed and turned to steam, a glassful for Harry.

Snape never visited on a Monday. On this particular Monday, Harry dreaded treading through the snow up to the castle, so he Engorgioed and transfigured one of the wooden barrels instead until it was the size of a large tub. An Aguamenti and a heating charm later, and he was summoning the soap from its dish next to the sink, the washcloth from the shelf, dropping his robes on the floor and diving into the steaming bliss, dunking his head into the hot water with fluffy charmed soapsuds.

Baths in the castle were far more elaborate than this, but not having to walk to take one in the snow and then walk back, slipping and sliding down the icy hill and freezing his arse off at eight o'clock in the evening, made all the difference. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, providing sparse light, and only a pair of candles were lit, floating over the bathwater. Harry stretched out, rubbed his sore shoulders and sunk deeper into the warmth. It seeped deep into his belly and sent relaxation up his spine. He rested his feet on the edge of the makeshift bath and looked lazily up to the ceiling. Without his glasses on, it was all soft shapes and shadows, with twin balls of candlelight up above.

He could fall asleep like this, to the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth, to the sounds of the wind in the trees outside, howling, stirring up the snow until it clung to the outer sides of the cabin, covered his pile of firewood and his roof and all the remains of the dried up garden with a pristine fluffy layer, frozen and white like layered lace.

But inside, the cabin's walls were stained dark brown, the candles glowed orange and warm, and the crimson quilts spilled off the bed into a bunched up pile. The hearth was large enough to heat up the entire room; the cosy rug in front of the fireplace was fluffy and soft and welcoming enough for Harry to go barefoot should he choose to. The worst of the winter's chill was kept at bay here, with the heat of the water and fire. With Harry's skin flushed pink from heat and his limbs heavy with relaxation, his wet fringe clinging to his forehead, his fingertips went wrinkled and pink. His thoughts were lazy and hazy and dull.

"Ahem," said Snape. "I'll come back tomorrow."

_Wait what? Shit._ Harry scrambled to get out of the bath, his fluffy epaulette of soapsuds slid slowly from his shoulder down his chest.

"No wait." His glasses were all steamed up and crooked, he squinted through them and awkwardly reached for the piled up robe which hung from the back of a nearby chair. He draped it over his hips and, with his left hand holding up the sliding fabric, didn't even bother hunting for his wand, just cast a wandless spell. " _Accio other clothes_! I'm good. Er... Hi! Did you want something?"

Snape had his back turned to Harry, pointedly not looking at him. He was, in fact, suddenly very interested in the contents of the shelves by the door, the ones that held spare candles and several jars full of oats. Harry couldn't imagine they'd be that interesting to anyone, Snape most of all. 

Harry tugged wet fabric over his chest, wrestled his feet down the trouser legs and firmly refused to feel awkward about flashing Snape in his own house.

"I'm decent." He swept his fingers through wet hair, slicking it back. "What did you need?"

Snape turned, and was it a trick of light that his ghostly-pale features seemed just slightly darker than usual, as if flushed with something like heat, the way Harry's cheeks were as well after the hot bath. "My apologies for the intrusion, I merely wanted to check whether you were well."

_On a Monday? Huh._ "Oh, OK, hang on a second." Harry banished the bathwater, restored the wooden bucket to its own size and sent it clattering to the corner smudged with coal dust and lined with firewood. "I've got some brandy left. Care for some pudding?"

Snape shook his head. "I... should probably go."

"Nonsense!" Harry waved his hand, still dripping soapsuds and water. "I could use some company. Um... how's the weather outside?"

"Miserable as expected," Snape said. "I wanted to make sure you have enough firewood and supplies for the night. I was going to suggest taking over one of the spare rooms at the castle. Judging by the sound of things, the storm is likely to get worse by morning."

"Worse? Oh, bloody hell." Harry sighed. He'd have to check on the Thestrals in the morning and make sure that the charms protecting the greenhouse glass windows held strong. He hated the thought of trudging all the way up to the Greenhouse Three in particular, but it couldn't be helped. Somebody needed to do it. He didn't want to think of the iced over pots with the baby mandrakes if he'd neglected the brief trip and let things go unchecked. "I'd best check on things now."

He looked around for his heavy snow boots (drying out by the fire), and his scarf and mittens.

"By the way," said Snape. "I am not the one to advise you on the weather, but from the looks of things, I'd suggest a warming charm at the very least. And a coat."

Harry sighed, stuffing his feet into the woolen socks. Hagrid made his job look so easy. In reality, Harry's days were filled with necessary chores. He never imagined how wide the Hogwarts grounds were until he had to walk them from the edge of the Forest to the far corner of the lake.

"M'fine," he waved it off. "It's just a short trip. Won't be out for long. You can come along if you'd like." _It's not like the lucky sod gets to worry about the chill in his state._ "You know, we should go ice fishing again sometime," he grinned, putting on a brave face before heading out the door. "When the weather clears."

"If you thought I'm letting you go alone in this weather -" Snape began, but then Harry made the mistake of swinging the front door of the cabin open. Immediately he was hit with an icy blast, snowstorm blowing the icy daggers into his face, fluffy clumps of snow scattering and melting at Harry's feet.

_Holy shit! I want my bath back!_ "Oof, you weren't kidding." Harry winced. He squared his shoulders, tucked his chin into his scarf, and raised his hand, casting the first warming charm of undoubtedly many. "Well then, ready?"

Snape ended up walking alongside Harry, lighting the path like a beacon. By his side, a slightly dimmer shape appeared, one of an animal. A doe. Snape's glowing form matched the precise patronus glow of it. It's as if both of them, the doe and Severus Snape's ghost, were Harry's guardians amid the night, the gloom, and the terrible weather. It brought a smile to Harry's face and he huffed joy into his woolen scarf. "Didn't expect that," he murmured. "That you'd get to keep her."

"Neither did I," Snape said, leaning close, though his voice carried even through the howling wind. "She is good company. You should probably stop talking now. Save your breath."

Harry, having climbed the nearest snowbank, nodded and resumed counting his steps. Behind them, a single set of footsteps stretched and disappeared, erased by the weather.

One foot after the other, another step. The icy resistance in his face wasn't quite as deadly now, as he rounded the corner toward Greenhouse Three. As he hurried inside, struggling with the spell to undo the magical locks, as he tapped his boots against the threshold to get rid of the worst of the snow. _Lumos!_ The lamps flared to life. Inside it was all quiet, the apple tree in the corner bloomed and another blossom floated down like a gentle clump of snow, in the contrast with the maelstrom outside. The mandrakes snored blissfully in their pots, some abandoned theirs and snuggled up to their neighbours in pairs and triads, in sleepy piles. The enchanted glass held, without cracks or breakage. Harry reached along the chilly panes, ran his hand across it and walked along the perimeter of the greenhouse. Past the potted plum trees and prickly pears, he ducked his head under the ripe strawberries hanging from their pots, and inhaled the fragrant scent of the fairy rose bush in the corner. Snape followed him, mirroring his movements on the other side and they met right by the tea sapling surrounded by the cluster of wild tulips.

Snape's doe pranced around Harry, once, twice, and disappeared behind the apple tree, fading into nothing. Snape remained though, his form ghostly but almost solid, in the silent space filled with greenery and wonder. Just a gentle drumbeat of the water dropping from the tap measured out the time now and then. Harry took in the moment, with the glow at the tips of his fingers, and the glow of Snape's hair and jawline, the silence between them and the madness outside, and wanted to remain in this moment, in this reality, forever.

The only thing that could make things better would have been Snape's solid, human, living form. But Harry knew by now not to tempt fate. That even in the Wizarding World, with all the magic at his disposal, some things were not possible.

Still, he cherished what he had left.

"Everything seems in order," Snape said but he didn't move away.

Harry stared up at him. "Yes, yes it is," he said softly. Snape's features were aglow even as the Lumos at the tip of his wand died down, extinguished. He wasn't in a hurry to step aside either. How did the man manage to look stern but wistful all at once? Perhaps it was the lighting, or the mood. Or maybe it was a ghostly superpower to look haunting.

If so, Snape managed it well. "Come on," Harry continued, a nudge to both of them to keep moving.

He tugged the scarf around him, and kept on going, outside, against the chill and the snowdrift, with a few more structures to check on. Afterwards he sent a Patronus to Sprout from his final stop, warning her not to go out in this weather and he smiled as he saw Snape's ghostly doe surface again, leaping after his stag.

The thought of it kept Harry going throughout his journey home to the cabin. Snape walked alongside him, slowing down when needed to match Harry's pace. He advised a hot cuppa and murmured good night when Harry reached his front steps and unlocked his door. 

"Good night," Harry waved, and squinted through iced-over eyelashes. It was unexpectedly sad to know that Snape would remain in the worst of the winter after Harry steps through that door. 

"I'll see you in the morning, Mr Potter. Are you sure you are all right?"

"Uh-huh, see you tomorrow."

The room was spinning then. Alone, stoking the fireplace back to life, and warming his hands and feet, Harry couldn't wait for the morning to come. His entire body felt heavy, far too heavy, all he wanted to do was to climb under a thick blanket and sleep.


End file.
